


She Found Him Drowning in the Sea

by Tonight_At_Noon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, F/M, I mean, Romance, but there are no aliens in this, i know that neither of them are aliens, if you get what I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonight_At_Noon/pseuds/Tonight_At_Noon
Summary: Forgiveness. At least, the start of it.





	She Found Him Drowning in the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> What is this, you may ask?
> 
> Ha, I say. I have no clue either.
> 
> Enjoy.

~~~~It was him. She got on her tiptoes and looked through the spyglass on her door, and it was him, standing there soaked from the rain. The long strands of his hair dripped on the Welcome mat the old tenant had left behind. His suit stuck to his skin.

He looked cold.

She watched him lift his bruised hand to the door again. He paused, and for a second she thought he could see her--he was looking right at her. But then he looked down at his feet--maybe; she couldn't see his feet--and rapped on the door.

One. Two. Three. 

She held her breath. Not on purpose. She couldn't breathe. Not when her stomach was trying to claw its way out of her throat.

She could taste blood.

Really, actually taste blood. There was metal on her tongue. Iron. Like she had just sucked on a penny.

And he was there.

Why was he there? Why was he knocking on her door at one o'clock in the morning?

She kept her eye pressed to the peephole. She watched him bow his head even further. His chin always touched his sternum when he did that. More water splashed, like his hair was crying. Or maybe he was crying and it wasn't rain at all, just his tears.

Her stomach made another leap for it.

If she spat right now, her saliva would be red.

Her eye was drying out. If she kept it open any longer, it would shrivel and fall to the floor.

She kept her eye open.

He didn't move.

Could people fall asleep standing up?

Could they die?

"Hey," she whispered, and his head shot up so fast she thought it might snap backwards. But it didn't. It stayed upright, and his eyes found the fish-eye magnifying glass.

He pressed himself against the door. His wet hair blocked her view. "Please," he said. He sighed, and she felt her door breathing with him.

She swallowed her intestines. Blood lingered on her tongue. "Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here."

"I don't know why."

His head lifted a little. His blue eyes--she couldn't see the flecks of sea foam in them with this poor picture quality--stared into the peephole. They pleaded with her.

"Please," he said again.

He used to be so bad at saying it. And it was her favourite word. And hearing him say her favourite word, the magic word, compelled her fingers to reach for the chain and the deadbolt.

The door creaked open. He swayed forward and into the apartment. She stepped back, hiding behind the door, watching him leave wet footprints and water droplets on her floor as he headed for the sofa. Before he sat down, he stripped himself of his jacket. He crumpled it and threw it crazily inside the hamper outside her bathroom. 

She stared at him, still clutching the door. Her stomach tried catching her windpipe.

"Can I sit?" he asked quietly. He sounded tired. Sad.

Closing the door, locking it again, she nodded.

"Come here," he said. His eyes pleaded with her some more. "Please."

She went to him carefully. "Why are you here?" She sat next to him, watching the light yellow fabric beneath him darken. "You'd already said goodbye."

"I didn't mean it," he said. He picked at a loose yellow thread. 

"You did. You never say things you don't mean." She was mad at him, she realised. And hurt. Aching. Bloodied. "Why is your hand purple?"

"I might have meant it," he said, "but I regret it. I think I only meant it for one second, but I had already said it, and I couldn't just say, _oh, never mind, my mistake_. My hand's purple because I punched Steve."

She gasped softly, and her stomach settled for a moment. "Why did you do that?"

"He was telling me how stupid I was."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"He said it was stupid of me to leave."

"But why did you punch him?"

He tugged the string so hard it ripped off the sofa. "Because _I know_ it was stupid. I didn't need him to tell me. But he did, and I couldn't stand hearing it from him, and so I punched him. He forgave me right away."

"He'd forgive you if you started World War Three."

His lips twitched. Then they moved to a solid line. He could slice her with that mouth. Cut her open like a straight razor.

"You haven't said anything," he said.

"I've said lots of things," she said.

He looked up. She could see the sea foam. "Darcy," he murmured, begging.

Her fingers tingled. They wanted to go to his sopping hair and comb through the clumped pieces. 

Her hands stayed in her lap, tangling together.

"Bucky, what do I say?" she asked, her throat near closing. It burned. The acid from her stomach, probably. Her eyes burned too. Was that her stomach acid also? "You left," she said.

"I know." He bent forward. His whole body this time, not just his head. He collapsed at the waist. Grinding the heels of his hands into eyes, he said, "I know, but God, what was I thinking?"

She didn't have an answer for that, but she didn't think he was asking her for one.

"I fucked everything up," he said into his lap. Only it didn't come out like that. His trouser legs got the brunt of the words, but she understood what he meant.

"Yeah," she agreed. Because he did. He fucked everything up. 

Still, her arm prickled. It wanted her to rub his back. To feel the muscles jump and move underneath her fingertips. She could see them now, twitching under the translucent fabric of his white button-down. 

Her lips missed the warmth of his skin. She used to kiss him right along the ridge of his spine. Her mouth would catch every knot until he couldn't take it anymore.

"What do you want me to say?"

He lifted himself up. His shoulders sagged. Never had he looked so defeated. So hopeless.

His swimming eyes rescued hers from the thrashing ocean. She blinked, following a single drop of rainwater--was it rainwater?--down his cheek. It got lost in the scruff on his jaw.

"Say," he said, "that I'm an idiot"

Darcy could cry. "You're an idiot."

"Say that I made the biggest mistake of my life."

Darcy _was_ crying. Just a little. "You made the biggest mistake of your life."

"Say," he implored, twisting the upper half of his body, "that I fucked everything up."

Her body was on fire. Inside and out. "You really fucked everything up."

"I know," he said, and when he reached for her hands, she didn't snatch them away. She clung to him. "I know, and I'm sorry. Please, Darcy, say you'll try to forgive me."

Please.

Darcy looked at Bucky. She tried to, at least. It was hard, nearly impossible, when it was high tide in her living room.

"Okay," she said, only it came out like a hiccup. Breathless and sharp. "Okay, I'll try."

She slipped her hands from his grip. Blinded by the lighthouse in his stare, she squinted and stroked the saltwater bathing his cheek.

His purple hand took her wrist, holding her palm against him.

She missed this. She missed him.

Bucky. 

She meant it--she would try.


End file.
